separate hat-trick balls within an hour of each other on the third afternoon. In 2014, this stuff is unheard of. In an age of bowling machines that sling it down at light-speed, players aren’t often beaten for pace by full balls.
We have to go right back to Trott to find the moment that Mitch changed though. Some say it happened half a world away in the stale September ODIs. Some believe it happened in the IPL. Some say it was the mellowing effect of fatherhood. Surely, though, the moment Mitchell believed he could conquer his Pom-shaped demons came just before lunch on the second morning in Brisbane. In truth, as the Barmy Army sang away merrily, his first spell had seen him bowl to the left and to the right. At 1-55, England looked comfortable enough so, as he did all summer, Clarke brought his trump card back for a burst before the break. Trott immediately looked like a man batting not on the popping crease but barefoot on a bed of hot coals instead, his feet jumping up and down, his mind unable to think through the heat. As the napkins were being laid out, he feathered a leg-side rib-tickler through to Haddin and the crowd erupted. Johnson emerged after lunch a man reborn, out-thinking Carberry, intimidating Root and terrifying Graeme Swann. In the second innings, he was irresistible. Mitchell was back.
Of course, Johnson didn’t do this all alone. He was the frontman of a punk band at the peak of its powers, all swagger, machismo, dodgy facial hair and over-the-top ink. When he entered the stage, the bar was empty, the bums were on seats and his adoring public were transfixed. Aussie men longed for his virility, Aussie women longed to be with
his virility. The rest of his band wasn’t half bad either, though. Ryan Harris, on lead guitar, stole the show with a series of seductive solos and constant character. Peter Siddle was on bass, plugging away, happier in the stage’s shadowy corners, out of sight of Mitch’s adoring public.
Nathan Lyon banged the drums, once the ugly duckling who the fans wanted out before his reliability and everyman charm ended the series as the perfect foil, the ideal wingman, for Mitch, the wild thing adorning the front pages. Darren Lehmann and Michael Clarke, the band’s managers, filled the mad man with faith and laid out perfect plans for his ascent to the top.
Mitchell Johnson may never bowl like this again. That matters little. Fast bowling greatness doesn’t require longevity, it’s about instant impact, and my god has he provided that. As a Pom who watched every ball, I was enthralled. In Brisbane I thought this was the match he was to win, in Adelaide I feared him but by
Perth, when I believed England’s Ashes were gone, I was able to enjoy the moment. From then on, every time the ball was in his hand it felt like a wicket was coming, like something was going to happen and I was entertained.
I’d never felt like this watching sport before. My team were on
the ropes yet I was just caught up in the immense theatre of it all and the sheer power and skill of their destroyer. To watch it on TV was one thing, to sit in the midst of those baying crowds, each fan as caught up as the next, another entirely. Johnson’s was a performance simply too visceral, too brisk and too perfect not to enjoy, whichever side of the fence you sat.
How Good is He?
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